CHOCOLATE AND MINT

No matter how much I wanted to be happy for him, it never lasted. I always ended up picturing the great “what if?”

He brought his new girlfriend to the concert we were supposed to go to together. A week prior, he texted me asking to buy my ticket. I responded saying no, but they were still available online. I texted him beforehand to confirm that he was bringing her, but I already knew he would be. He told me that he made her a playlist of the band’s music. My favorite song, the song I showed him, was on it.

And the night of the concert, the music vibrated within me. It felt almost spiritual with my eyes closed; I was trying to not see them kiss anymore. But I looked at the stage during my favorite song, and I couldn’t help but catch them with the side of my eye. I wondered if it was as weird for him to hold her during my favorite song as it was for me, but then figured probably not. I stopped trying to look at the stage.

I left shortly after and cried through two cigarettes on the sidewalk bench.

In autumn, he would call me pretty when I woke up. He’d tuck my hair behind my ear while my chin rested on his chest. We’d fool around to my favorite song, his hand cupping my scalp to stop it from hitting the headboard. We could spend days together like they were seconds. And he never wanted to leave. He told me so.

One night he said, “I’ll leave so you don’t get sick of me.” I said, “Do you really think that if you stay, I’ll get sick of you?” He responded, “That’s just what I’m telling myself to justify it.” He said that it was sad, having to go. I never wanted him to leave, either. I told him to let me know if he changed his mind. It was implied I’d let him back in.

He left me his sweater because I told him I liked it so much. He looked at me like he was stargazing on the clearest night. He picked me up and put me on the edge of my bed to kiss me. In the beginning, I liked how he made me feel small. And how he kissed me like he loved me, or at least wanted to love me. We would stay up until dawn, and he would tell me, “Nobody makes me feel the way you do.”

It was always implied that I’d let him back in, just like it was always implied that he would come back. His friend told my roommate that he talked about me all the time. Even after he started dating his best friend, his other friend said, “Look, he really likes his girlfriend and all, but he thinks of you as a ‘what if?’”

I told him I didn’t want to date him, and I meant it. At that time, I really meant it. My friends told me they were proud of me for keeping my guard up, like my refusal would protect me. But he’d hold me and squeeze me close, always saying, “Come closer, come closer.” Pressed against his body, I told him that I wasn't sure how, and he’d lift me onto him, saying “You’re not close enough.”

It made me feel sick to think of him saying the same thing to her.

Sometimes I’d forget about him, and sometimes he’d text me and I’d cry. He talked about me all the time, but a week after I asked him to take a break, he got a new girlfriend, and a couple weeks later, he kissed her in front of me to my favorite song.

I wondered if he thought of me at all that night, like how I could do nothing but think of him. The bitter feeling he gave me was almost magnetic. I brought two friends with me to the show. He brought his new girlfriend. But it didn’t matter who we were with; all I felt was him. It would’ve been nice to be there with him, like I had wanted to, but that desire was selfish. I wanted the love we were never allowed to speak aloud. He asked to buy my ticket for a love that could be spoken.

I didn’t record any of the show—I didn’t want to remember any of it.

The consensus was unanimous. All of my friends said, “He’s an asshole.” I replied, “I don’t know if he’s malicious or stupid or both. Why would he bring her, of all people? Did he not know that this would hurt me, or did he just not care?”
“You rejected him, and she didn’t. He probably still cares about you. But that doesn’t mean that it wasn’t cruel to ask to buy your ticket, or to bring her to anything that was special to you two.”
“Or maybe he was enjoying listening to the music with her, and I just didn’t come to mind. Maybe he’s just over me, and it’s as simple as that.”

It didn’t take me long to figure out that it wasn’t meant to be. I was just the introduction to his love story with her. And wasn’t love from my friends and family enough? 

No—nobody could kill me like a boy, and I craved a love like mercy. 

I hated how much I thought of him and how he made me feel sixteen. Tossing in bed at 4 am, I tried to remind myself, “This is the best outcome. He gets the relationship I wasn’t ready to give him, and I get to be alone like I asked to. It would be unfair to resent him for giving me what I wanted. Plus, if he and I really dated, and he got with his beautiful best friend after, that would kill me. It’s irrelevant that I’m ready now. He deserves to be happy. And this way, without me, he’s happy.” 

Those nights I often left my bed to smoke on the pavement. I’d burn through a whole pack in one sitting, my mind occupied with questions but no answers. No matter how much I wanted to be happy for him, it never lasted. I always ended up picturing the great “what if?” 

Did he ever really want to leave, or did he not know I would always let him back in? 

Maybe in another universe we spent a spring together, eating chocolate and mint ice cream, and I finally told him how he made me feel sixteen. But it doesn’t matter what I want. What is meant to be will be, and I was meant to be without him.

So I told myself:
“One day, I am going to be in New York, and he is going to be somewhere I am not. And one day I’ll buy clementines from the farmers market for a love I haven’t uncovered yet. I won’t think about him, at night or ever. My hands will be full of love and flour and cameras to commemorate a story I never could’ve imagined. He will be gone, and that will be good. We were meant to hold on only in memory. And he will be gone. And so will I.”

AUTHOR: Violetta Balkoff is a sophomore at Brown University, and she still wants you to write her a letter telling her how you really feel.
ARTIST: Ashley Castañeda is a Latinx illustrator in their senior year at RISD. They are probably taking a well-deserved nap somewhere.